STAY AT SAY
We soon came in sight, as we rounded a bend of the stream, of a
thicket of trees on an island which seemed made on purpose for us.
We landed and pitched our tents.
The most important characteristic of an island is that it should be
completely surrounded with water. Well, our island fulfilled this
condition, for the time being at least. On the left, looking down
stream we could see the principal arm of the Niger, the deepest part
of the river, in which, however, the rocks of the bed were already
beginning to emerge, whilst on the right was a narrower channel barred
at the end by a rapid, beyond which the water disappeared entirely
underground. Yet further away in the same direction we could see
a little branch of the broken-up river with a very strong current
hastening on its way to join the main stream, where I could not tell.
Our island was about 218 yards long by 328 broad. At one end,
that looking up-stream, was a rocky bank, whilst the other, looking
down-stream, consisted of low-lying alluvial soil, often of course
submerged, dotted here, there, and everywhere with the mounds of the
termites, and at this time of year completely deserted. A few fine
and lofty tamarinds and other trees with large trunks but little
foliage formed a regular wood, and afforded us a grateful shade; but
the island as a whole, with its ant-hills, its twisted, tortuous, and
leafless trunks, and its ground strewn with sharp and broken flints,
presented a very wild and desolate appearance when we first landed.
Its situation, however, was really far from unpleasing, for on the
deserted left bank the inundations are never very deep, and near
to it rise wooded hills, with here and there perpendicular cliffs
rising straight up from the river. Nearly opposite to us was one of
these cliffs, white with guano or with lime, which looked to me very
well suited for a permanent post. Being quite bare of vegetation,
this cliff stands out against the verdure of the woods, and from
the evening to the morning, from twilight to sunrise, great troops
of big black monkeys assemble in it, and hold a regular palaver
just as the negroes do. Often at night their cries quite alarm us,
and keep the sentries constantly on the _qui vive_.
The whole of the riverside districts on the left bank, from Kibtachi
to the Toucouleur villages up-stream, are completely deserted and
of bad fame. Now and then we saw men armed with bows and arrows
prowling about on a slave hunt, or deer came down to drink. The
right bank is far less dreary. Opposite to us is Talibia, a little
agricultural village, tributary to Say. We can make out the gables
of the pointed huts surrounded by palisades and _sanies_ or fences
made of mats. When the millet is full grown these pointed huts are
quite hidden by it, and the scene is one of great beauty, giving an
impression of considerable prosperity. Women come down to the beach
to fetch water, and bathe in the arm of the stream. On market day
at Say—that is to say, on Friday—there is great excitement at
Talibia, men, women, and children trooping to market with their wares
as they do in France, carrying their butter, their mats—in a word,
all the produce of the week’s work on their heads.
Above Talibia and the confluence of the third arm of the river
the wood becomes dense and impenetrable. A little path follows
the river-bank through the tall grass, and during our long stay in
the island it was the daily morning occupation to watch from the
top of the island who should come along this path, for by it alone
could king’s ambassadors, marabouts, market-women or any one else
approach us.
[Illustration: VIEW OF OUR ISLAND AND OF THE SMALL ARM OF THE RIVER.]
Our island was quite deserted by the natives, for though the people
of Talibia grew millet on it before our arrival, they would never
live on it, or even sleep on it for one night, for it had a very bad
reputation, and was supposed to be haunted by devils, horrible devils,
who took the form of big fantastic-looking monkeys, and after sunset
climbed upon the ant-hills and held a fiendish sabbat.
Without calling in the aid of the supernatural to account for it,
there is no doubt that people belated on the left bank were never
seen again. Perhaps they are taken captive by the robber Djermankobes,
or fall victims to lions or hyænas.
However that may be, the Talibia devils, as were those of Wuro and
Geba later, were propitious to us. All these spirits, whether of
Kolikoro, of Debo, or of Pontoise, are really cousins-german. Ours
were the spirits of the Niger, and the negroes explained our immunity
from their attacks by saying, “They can do nothing against an
expedition, the leader of which is the friend of Somanguru, the great
demon of Kolikoro, and who knows the river at its source, where it
comes out of the earth, where no one else has ever seen it.”
I imagine that since our departure the natives of Talibia have still
avoided the island. Our residence on it was not enough to rehabilitate
it, and probably now many rumours are current about the spirit which
haunts the ruins of our camp.
It was really a great thing to be on an island. We were safe there
from hyænas at least, and all we had to do was to put our camp in
a state of defence against the Toucouleurs and their friends.
The first fortification we put up was a moral one, for we baptized
our camp Fort Archinard, in token of our gratitude to the Colonel of
that name, and it was worth many an abattis. The name of Archinard was
in fact a kind of double fetich, for it gave confidence to our own
men, and it inspired the Toucouleurs with superstitious terror. In
the French Sudan there is not a marabout, a soldier, or a _sofa_ of
Samory, not a _talibé_ of Amadu, not a friend nor an enemy of the
French who does not retain deeply graven upon his memory the name
of Colonel Archinard, for the present General will always be the
Colonel in Africa, the great Colonel whom, according to tradition,
no village ever resisted for a whole day.
So we managed that the news of the baptism of our Camp should be
spread far and near, and passed on from mouth to mouth till it
reached the ear of Amadu himself. No doubt he had some bad dreams
in consequence.
This moral defence, however, required to be supplemented by a material
one. Two hundred and twenty by forty-three yards is not a very wide
area for thirty-five people to live in, but it is far too big a
space to have to defend efficiently.
We felt it would be prudent to restrict the camp, properly so called,
to the northern point of the island, and taking six termitaries
as points of support, we placed abattis between them. Everything
was ready to our hands, branches, logs, brushwood, thorns, etc. We
cut down the trees at the lower end of the island, which cleared
our firing range, though it also rather spoiled the look of the
landscape. We levelled the site of our camp, razed many of the
ant-hills to the ground, and mounted our two guns, one pointing
up-stream, on a huge trunk which seemed to have been placed where it
was on purpose, which commanded the bank almost as far as Say itself,
whilst the other was placed on a big trunk which we drove firmly into
the ground, and would keep the people on the banks down-stream in
awe. At each gun sentries were always on guard. Then the unfortunate
_Aube_ was unloaded, patched up somehow, provided with sixteen oars,
and armed with the machine-gun belonging to the _Davoust_, all ready
to advance to the attack or the defence whether to Say or to Dunga.
In a word, the urgent preliminary work was rapidly accomplished in
a very few days, and then in comparative security we began building
what the natives call the _tata_, that is to say, an earthwork such
as surrounds sedentary villages, or a fortified redoubt serving as
the residence of a chief.
Even if you had not been brought up a mason, you would very soon
become one in the Sudan; at least you will learn to build as the
negroes do. There are neither stones, lime, nor sand, nothing but
water and more or less argillaceous soil. With that you must make
bricks, mortar, and the mixture for graining, if graining you mean
to have. The clay is kneaded with the feet, and when it is ready,
what are called _tufas_ are made of it, that is to say, flat or
cylindrical bricks, which the mason or _baré_ places horizontally
between two layers of mortar. The _baré_ sits astride on the wall
he is building and chants the same tune over and over again, whilst
his assistants silently pass up the _tufas_ to him. I have noticed
that all over the world masons and tile-makers are as light-hearted
as birds.
Our best mason in this case was a big Sarracolais named Samba Demba,
who generally acted as groom to our bicycle Suzanne. When he was at
work on the wall it grew apace, and we too grew gay as we saw it rise,
for with it increased our sense of security.
When the building went on well, we felt that everything else would
go well too.
Our _tata_ was a triangular wall, each of the three sides being from
about eleven to sixteen yards long. It was thick enough to protect
us from treacherous shots from old-fashioned rifles, and indeed also
from the quick-firing weapons which the English had sold some time ago
to our enemy Samory. At a height of about six feet and a half some
forty loopholes were made, distributed about equally over the three
sides of the triangle formed by our wall. Inside, the walls were
supported by buttresses about three feet thick, which served alike
as seats and places in which to store our ammunition. The building
seemed likely to last well unless it should be disintegrated and
washed away in a tornado some day; breaches will of course be made
in it, parts of it will fall, but I expect, for a long time hence,
its ruins will bear witness to the stay here of the French expedition,
and to our effective occupation of the site.
[Illustration: FORT ARCHINARD.]
I forget what king of Sego it was who rendered his _tata_
impregnable by making human corpses its foundation. In default of
such a precaution as this, which we refrained from taking, a few
determined men might at any moment have carried Fort Archinard by
assault, but they would have paid dearly for their success.
On the summit of an ant-hill, at the top of the longest bamboo stem
we could find, we hoisted the French flag.
And in this remote island of Archinard, more than two hundred leagues
from any other European, we with our coolies lived for five months,
and made the French name, beneath the protection of the French flag,
respected in spite of old Amadu, in spite of the chief of Say, and
of all their intrigues against us; yes, in spite of all hostile
coalitions, in spite of the dreary rainy season, and of the home
sickness which consumed us,—in a word, in spite of everything.
The _tata_ once constructed, we were now free to consider our comfort
a little, as we had really nothing better to do. Bluzet, who had
already acted as architect of the fort, undertook the building of
our huts. We each had our own palace, but what a simple palace! A
circular hollow rick of straw some 12 feet in diameter, upheld by a
central stake, interlaced stalks forming the framework of the roof,
whilst ropes were woven in and out of the straw, forming with it a
kind of net-work pattern. One little window was contrived in each
hut, a mere porthole just big enough to let in air and light but
not rain, whilst a low doorway was made on the opposite side to that
from which we might expect tornadoes.
Lastly, to protect us from stray bullets, a little earthen wall,
some 19 inches high, was erected inside our huts, so that it just
covered us when we were lying full length at night. We each did our
best to make our own particular niche cosy and ship-shape; but in
justice it must be said that Baudry and I were the most successful,
for we achieved quite a brilliant result. Baudry’s straw walls
were a perfect museum of watches, instruments, medicines, patterns,
objects for exchange, and strangest of all—toads!
Father Hacquart’s hut was very soberly decorated. Sacred images
were nailed to the central stake, and in the little wall—I very
nearly said in a corner—was a cornet-à-piston, which was later
the joy of the chief of Bussa, but of which I own with the deepest
regret we never heard a single note.
[Illustration: FORT ARCHINARD.]
With Bluzet the keynote of the decorations was art. He had draperies
of velvet, a little faded and frayed perhaps, at nine-pence or so a
yard, with others of native manufacture. Dr. Taburet’s speciality
was medicine-bottles, with a horrible smell of iodoform, or, to
be more accurate, of all the disinfectants known to science, and
carefully protected in a tin case set on a what-not, a souvenir he
never parted with, and often gazed upon, the portrait of the lady
he was to marry on his return home.
Fili Kanté, a boy in the service of Bluzet, who was not only cook
but blacksmith and clown to the expedition, concocted a cocked hat
for each of our pointed huts, which after a few tornadoes had passed
over them were worn, so to speak, over one ear!
The huts of the men were all very much alike, but two on the side
of the longest wall were of course rather larger than the others,
and of a rectangular shape. Lastly, we had a big watertight store
made, in which we stowed away all our valuables. The canvas sail of
the foremast of the _Aube_ fastened to the ground served as a kind
of shelter for the interpreters, merchants, supernumeraries, etc.,
and everything was covered over to the best of our ability with our
tents, awnings, etc.
Well, we were under shelter now, and you know what kind of shelter,
from the inclemency of the rainy season and the bullets of the
Toucouleurs. We had still storms to expect, and against them we
were less well provided. We had already encountered a few of them
unprotected. We had had plenty of tents, of course, but we knew from
experience, that when we saw the preliminary fantasia of the dried
leaves on the left bank beginning, the best thing to do was to put on
as quickly as possible all the waterproofs to be had, and go outside
to meet the hurricane, turning our backs to it, and at the same time
tightening the ropes of the tents. It was really the only way not
to get it—I mean the tent, not the hurricane—on our shoulders!
It took us a good month of hard work without any rest to establish
our camp. Every morning one party went to fetch straw, whilst the
rest of us kept guard at home and worked at the _tata_. We were all
glad enough when everything was done, but at the same time we were
rather afraid of the _ennui_ of inaction, as the following quotation
from my notes will show—
“_May 16._—The _tata_ was finished this morning, the huts, a
dining-room, and a _gurbi_ or servants’ hall, a kitchen, and an
oven of a sort. There is nothing left to do now, for Suzanne is the
only member of our expedition still without a shelter. _Mon Dieu_,
how dull it will be!”
[Illustration: OSMAN.]
Truth to tell, we did have some dull days, and no mistake;
but of course we should have had them in garrison or on board
ship. Fortunately, however, to relieve the monotony of our stay,
a regular world in miniature gathered about us, for we had eager
visitors, courtiers, accredited traders, not to speak of other guests
we might have had if we had chosen.
I must now introduce a few of these people. Two men played a very
important part in our existence at Fort Archinard. These two were
Osman and Pullo. The former was the man from Say, the Koyrabero
who had been waiting for us before we reached Sansan-Haussa, no
doubt to spy on us, and who had come down to Say with us on the
_Davoust_; a vulgar fellow, without either dignity or intelligence,
he played the ignoble rôle of go-between all the time we were in
the neighbourhood. Of Songhay race, with a dash of the Fulah in his
composition, he had the duplicity of the latter, whilst retaining
all the stupidity of the former.
He was physically a handsome fellow, with fine features, as black
as a crow, but he was getting old now, and was afflicted not only
with tubercular disease, but also with a kind of leprosy, which did
not prevent him from shaking hands with us three times a day.
He often came with a marabout named Ali, who was further gone in
consumption than himself.
Pullo, or Pullo Sidibé, to give his full title, was a very different
kind of man. Tall, thin, with a comparatively pale complexion, he
wore a filthy _chechia_ or native cap a little on one side. He had
a way of moving his arms up and down like a semaphore, and really
rather resembled a big scarecrow in rags. With a mysterious air,
such as a Sibyl might wear, he was constantly taking one or another
of us aside to some corner, or to an ant-hill or mound, far from
indiscreet listeners, to impart in a solemn manner some utterly
incredible false news of which we shall have an example to give
presently. I must mention, too, the way in which he used to smile
when we pointed out to him in a friendly way the mistakes he had
made. “Ah,” he would say to me laughing, “I shall never go
back to my fields as long as you are here, I shall never look after
my flock again. You are my milch cow, you are my great _lugan_.”
He was at no pains to disguise the true motives for his devotion,
and we were at least able to hope to bind him to us by self-interest.
Osman and Pullo had certain qualities in common, for both were
equally covetous of presents, and equally ready to tell lies with
imperturbable seriousness; but whereas Pollo carried on his deceptions
with the air of a grand seignior and the smile of a superior man,
such as a Fulah might wear who had been brought in contact with the
Tuaregs, Osman showed his avarice and venality without the slightest
attempt at disguise.
The two enjoyed a monopoly of the news, generally false, as I have
already said, brought to us from the Say market. They hit upon
another dodge too, and a very lucrative one; this was to introduce
to us envoys more or less genuine, and more or less interesting, from
the chiefs of the outlying districts and villages. At first Pullo or
Khalifa, as he was also called, worked at this trade alone, and it
would be our first amusement in the morning to climb the ant-hill in
front of the fort and look out for him. We generally saw him pretty
soon, his approach heralded by a red spot on the horizon.
I read in my notes of May 16—“At about eight o’clock, far
away on the borders of the wood in the direction of Say, we see
approaching the thin figure of Pullo Sidibé, surmounted by his
dirty fez, balanced in an uncertain kind of way upon his head. He
is followed by a gentleman in a clean white _bubu_. ‘Page, pretty
page,’ we cry, ‘what news do you bring?’
With this extraordinary personage everything is possible. I expect
some morning to hear him announce with the air of some herald of
a great embassy, “Amadu Cheiku! the Emir el Munemin, or perhaps
even the Grand Turk, or her Majesty the Queen!”
All went well for some time with Pullo, but when Osman realized the
rewards to be obtained by bringing news or envoys, he set up as a
rival to our first friend. The envoys, who were generally picked
up in the Friday market at Say, now came in pairs, each with his
own showman.
[Illustration: PULLO KHALIFA.]
After this opposition was set up, a syndicate was of course sure to
follow. I suspect, however, that if Osman sometimes got the chestnuts
out of the fire, it was generally Khalifa who ate them.
I had to dwell rather fully on these two fellows, they played such
a very preponderant part in our lives, but there were others of
secondary rank, so to speak, of whom I must say a few words.
To begin with, there was the acting chief of the opposite village
named Mamadu, as at least half of his fellow-believers are. With
a clear complexion and an intelligent expression, he was still a
regular scamp, ready to lend himself to any treachery. In the Fulah
language there
is a word which means “give a little present so as to get a very
big one.” I am not sure whether there is any word corresponding
to this in Songhay, but there is not the slightest doubt that the
Koyraberos know how to practise the manœuvre suggested by the
word, and Mamadu was an adept at it. On one occasion, however, his
hopes of a present were disappointed, and he was guilty of a very
great mistake. We simply had to turn him out of the camp, and from
that moment he became all submission to us. Our coolies in their
free-spoken way nicknamed him the blackguard Mamadu, and no doubt
he had well merited the epithet by some dastardly deed they knew of.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL KOURTEYE.]
Amongst our constant visitors was one quite small boy, the son of the
famous Abd el Kader of Timbuktu, who had been the guest of the French
Geographical Society there, a corresponding member of that of Paris,
the great diplomatist who had been made a plenipotentiary in spite of
himself, and who had acted as guide to my friend Caron in his grand
journey. Abd el Kader, when driven from Timbuktu, wandered about in
the districts near the bend of the river. No doubt under pretence
of making a pilgrimage to Mecca, he lived like a true marabout at
the expense of the natives, seducing many women, and leaving many
children behind him whose mothers he had deserted. It is said that
he is now with Samory.
[Illustration: THE ARABU.]
His little son to whom I referred above was called “the Arabu.”
He was very proud of his parentage, and looked upon his father as a
saint. Though small for his age, he had a big head of the shape known
as hydrocephalic, and was a very sensible, intelligent little fellow,
with quite refined instincts. From our first arrival at Say he had
bravely come to see us on our barges, and though he was trembling
in all his limbs as he spoke, he explained his position clearly to
us. We made a great fuss over him, giving him sugar to eat. The gamins
of Say looked upon him as partly a white, and partly what they call
a _tubabu_. Strange to say, when there was any difficulty with the
market-women, who sometimes made a great noise, singing seditious
songs and dancing to their accompaniment, shouting out praises of
Aliburi or Amadu, it was always the little Arabu who was deputed to
go and pacify them. As he expressed it, “the son of an ambassador,
I too am an ambassador!”
This child grew quite fond of us. Being on his father’s side of more
or less Twat origin, he considered himself a white man like ourselves,
and of all our guests he was perhaps the only disinterested one,
if we say nothing about the sugar.
Amongst the Koyraberos, it is the children, boys or girls, who are the
most attractive. The little negroes are innocent enough up to twelve
or thirteen years old, and are often very bright and intelligent. But
when they reach the age at which they are considered men and women,
the indulgence of their passions brutalizes the males, whilst the
females are worn out by the number of children they all have. The
fatalism of the Mahommedans gives them also something of the wan
expression of oxen who expect they know not what. I believe the
negro race might be very greatly improved by the careful selection
of children before they are subjected to evil influences. A careful
education of such selected boys and girls would, in the course of
a few generations, result in the growing up of useful citizens and
intelligent workers for the common good.
It may be that the decline in the intelligence of negroes is partly
the result of the way the children are carried about in infancy by
their mothers. They ride pig-a-back all day long, kept in place by a
cotton band fastened above the breasts of the mother, who takes no
notice of them even when they cry. The women do everything, wash,
beat the linen, cook and pound the grain, with their children tied
to them in this fashion. The head of the poor little one comes out
above the bandage, and is shaken and flung backwards and forwards at
every blow of the pestle. It really is very likely that this perpetual
motion injures the brain of the growing child, and accounts for the
degeneration of the race.
However that may be, the constant pressure on the breasts of the
mother leads to their rapid disfigurement; they look quite old before
they have reached middle life. Every one knows that negresses often
give the breast to their babies over their shoulders or even from
under the arm-pit.
So far the French have taken no steps for the effective occupation
of Say, and Amadu Cheiku has been undisputed master of the country
ever since the breaking at Sinder of the power of Madidu over the
Tuaregs. Dunga was the first place in which the Toucouleurs settled
for any time. After their exodus many circumstances combined in
favour of their chief. Driven from Sego, Nioro, and Massina by the
French, as a punishment for his many crimes and treacheries, he took
refuge at Duentza near Dori, but as, like a good marabout, he tried
(from religious motives of course) to poison the chief and reign
in his stead, he was expelled from the town and had once more to
flee for his life. Many of his people deserted him and returned to
Massina. Wandering as a fugitive from village to village he passed
his days begging from hut to hut, trying in vain to win back the
deserters.
The Toucouleurs found it difficult to get a living now, for no one
would treat them as marabouts any longer. The Fulahs of Torodi refused
to let them pass. Ibrahim Galadio, whose influence was preponderant
throughout the country, was not favourable to the Toucouleurs, and
they now took possession of Larba in independent Songhay, but the
Logomaten, or the Tuaregs of Bokar Wandieïdu, defeated them with
much bloodshed and took three hundred of them prisoners.
The toils were closing in upon Amadu Cheiku, who, taught caution
by experience, expected to find the French skirmishers at his heels
before they were really there. Things did indeed look black for him,
when a saviour suddenly arose in the person of the chief of Say,
who had won back Galadio and Amiru of Torodi to the cause of the
true religion, and at the very time that he was signing a treaty
with the French, gave passage to Amadu, against whom he had been
pretending to need our help.
Amadu crossed the river, and was hospitably received by the people of
Djerma, who gave him the village of Dungu for himself and his people.
Profiting by family quarrels, the wily chief soon became master,
and presently took possession of the big village of Karma, and it
was not until they were all taken prisoners, that the Djermankobes
discovered that they had been warming and feeding a serpent.
Now Amadu is once more a great marabout in right of his inheritance
from his father, El Hadj Omar. He is also a formidable military chief,
able to put five hundred guns into the field, for he has that number
of Toucouleur warriors under him. His word is paramount from Sinder
to Kibtachi. Unfortunate circumstances, including the blood shed
by the Christians, have won to his side the whole of the Mussulman
population, and besides his five hundred guns, he can dispose of from
ten to twenty thousand so-called archers or men armed with spears.
His aim, or rather that of his principal adviser, Aliburi, who is
really the organizer of everything, seems to be to join hands on the
one side with Samory, and on the other with the Sultan of Sokoto, from
whom, however, he is divided by the Kebbi, Mauri, and Gober. Moreover,
Samory has a brother who was the leader of the column which took to
flight after the French success at Nioro. He will achieve his ends
unless we can prevent it, for his confederation is strengthened by
the fact that all are united in devotion to the Mussulman faith,
whilst the various native tribes combined against him, though they
are individually braver and stronger, have nothing to bind them
together or to lead them to act in concert.
If this union be brought about, the three great slave-dealers of
Western Africa—Samory, Amadu, and the Emir el Munemin of Sokoto,
will be combined against all comers, and we may expect to see
the complete depopulation of the Niger districts above Say. Amadu
has already begun his operations down-stream, where the banks are
deserted, the villages in ruins, and, where once the Toucouleurs
women came to draw water and to wash their clothes, grow quantities
of wild flowers and creepers.
Let us hope, however, that the recent occupation of Fandu, and the
French policy of establishing an effective protectorate over the
negro races may produce a salutary effect.[10]
The only man in a position to make head against Amadu was Ibrahim
Galadio, a stranger to the country, whose father had fled there,
chased from Massina by the Fulahs of Amadu, the great founder of the
ephemeral dynasty of Hamda-Allahi. Galadio has guns, Galadio has
a _tata_, he is as strong as the Toucouleurs, and no one would be
able to understand his rallying to the cause of Amadu Cheiku, and
submitting to him, if it were not for the prestige still attached
to the name of that chief’s father, El Hadj Omar. Yet the former
Sultan of Sego is, as every one knows, a Mussulman, with neither
faith nor belief in any law, stained with numerous crimes, a traitor
to his father, cursed even by him, cruel to his women, the murderer
of his brothers, avaricious in dealing with his _sofas_, and above
all the founder of a heresy.
The Torodi are hand and glove with the Tuaregs, and the people
of Say side with them, but the latter are not of much account as
warriors. Say is really nothing more than a hot-house for breeding
second-rate and intolerant marabouts. No _tam-tams_, no games are
allowed in it, and only on account of its past has it some little
historic importance.
[Illustration: A FEMALE TUAREG BLACKSMITH IN THE SERVICE OF IBRAHIM
GALADIO.]
The Gaberos, the revolted vassals of the Awellimiden, are also on
Amadu’s side. They rallied round him voluntarily from the first,
but one day when they were beating their _tabalas_ or war-drums, an
envoy from Dungu ran through the villages and staved in those drums,
which amongst negroes is considered the greatest insult. With him
went a herald shouting—“Henceforth there is no _tabala_ in the
land, but that of Amadu Cheiku, the son of El Hadj Omar!”
At the invocation of that name so full of prestige, the Gaberos
bowed their heads, and very soon afterwards they had to pay taxes
like every one else.
The Sidibees soon joined them, for they and the Gaberos both belong
to the Fulah race.
Other tribes such as the Sillabees, like the Wagobes of Sinder and
the Sarracolais of the Senegal districts, had emigrated here, after
intestine quarrels with the Djanaru of Nioro, whilst the Kurteyes,
who are Fulahs of Massina, joined the Rimaibes or domestic slaves,
and the Bozos or emigrants from Fituka, in the time of the Ardos of
Massina under the last of the Askias.
This fact of their mixed origin will explain the courage of these
warrior tribes, for the Fulahs of pure descent are by no means
remarkable for bravery.
Even during our stay at Say, the Wagobés, the Kurteyes, and the
Sillabees were certainly on Amadu’s side, though their devotion
was rather lukewarm. Perhaps if they had known that we meant to stay
in the country, and had not been afraid of reprisals after we left,
they would have declared themselves on our side; in a lukewarm way
of course. It is in fact on these mixed tribes, which are neither
entirely Songhay nor Fulah, though they are all Mussulmans, that
we shall have to depend in our future occupation of the districts
under notice.
In the present state of Say politics we must also take the Gurma,
the Fandu, and the Mossi people into account. They are all heathens,
but unfortunately the Mahommedan religion daily wins recruits amongst
these people, who were once devoted to fetichism alone. True heathens,
as heathens, are not worth much, for they are cruel, addicted to
drink, and credulous of the delusions their sorcerers teach them; but
they are worth a great deal more than the Mussulmans, for fetichism
may be improved upon and turned to account, but you can do nothing
with a Mahommedan.
The policy which ought to be followed in the districts round Say is
to oppose the marabout coalition which has rallied about Amadu, with
the fetich-worshipping people of Gurma and the lukewarm Mussulmans
of Dendi and Kebbi. They can be made a defence against the intrusion
of fanaticism and intolerance.
Having now, as I hope, given something of an idea of our surroundings,
let me relate how we passed the day at Fort Archinard.
At about half-past five in the morning, the one of us five whites
who happened to be on duty, shouted the order as if we were on board
ship, “Clear the decks!” There was rarely any delay in giving
that order, for it ended the watch for the night, and when one has
been walking the quarter-deck for some hours, one hastens to go and
get a little sleep before daybreak, for in these stifling nights
the only refreshing rest is that obtained in the early morning.
The coolies now lazily bestir themselves. Digui, who is the first
to get up, makes them put away their bedding and take down the
mosquito-nets, etc., shouting a kind of parody of orders on board
ship, “Roll up your kits, roll up your kits!” for they all love
to fancy themselves sailors, and are proud of the name.
Then when all are up and dressed, and everything is stowed away,
all turn towards the rising sun to perform their devotions, for
most of our men are Mussulmans. Some of them, who were but lukewarm
believers when in their homes on the Senegal, become more and more
devout the further they are from their country. Much of it is mere
show, of course. Others really have a kind of instinctive religion,
a sort of superstitious terror of the unseen—what may be called
the natural religion of fear. In every other respect however, they
are brave enough: we have had plenty of proof of that.
I must add here, however, that I have remarked rather a singular
fact, namely, that great religious zeal and endless prostrations,
with much posing and genuflexion, generally coincide with fits of
dishonesty, lying, and treacherous behaviour. One of our fellows,
who had hitherto been honest enough, took simultaneously to prayer
and pilfering our beads; and a man in whom I had before had great
confidence strutted about wearing strings of stolen property on
his neck and arms without any attempt at disguise. This put me on
my guard. Of course he had every reason to ask pardon of God for
his sins and to keep on muttering, “_Astafar wallaye, astafar
wallaye!_—Pardon, pardon!” At the same time he had taken to
filching goods in the market, an aggravating circumstance of this
crime being that he was trusted to look after our purchases.
There were of course some really devout Mahommedans amongst our
men. Samba Ahmady, our quarter-master, for instance, always performed
his devotions in private, and was a model of probity. Digui too
was a true believer, but perhaps I should say of him that he was a
philosopher rather than a blinded Mahommedan. He knew how to return
thanks to Allah without any ostentation when we had safely got
through some difficulty or danger, and whilst admitting that there
were such people as bad marabouts, he sometimes talked in a manner
alike naïve, touching, and elevated, of the dealings of Providence
with man, which is indeed rare, especially amongst illiterate negroes.
Then Ahmady Mody, another trustworthy fellow, had a theory of his own
about salaams, and all that. I said to him one day, “Why don’t
you perform your salaam when the others do?”
“Commandant,” he replied, “I am too small; I will do it when
I am married.”
Well, the morning devotions over, we used to go to work, for there
was always something to do; the boats needed repair, or we had
to add to the _tata_, to unpack and repack the bales, send out
parties to cut wood or straw, and last, not least, to drill the
men, and make them practice shooting at a target. We used to hear
our carpenter Abdulaye singing as he conscientiously worked at
oar-making, and his song did not vary by an iota all the time we
were at Say. It was a very monotonous rhythm consisting of one word,
_Sam-ba-la-a-bé-é-é-é-é-é-é-_. Samba Laobé, be it understood,
was one of the heroes of the native resistance of the French in
Cayor, and was killed in single combat with Sub-Lieutenant Chauvey
of the Spahis in 1886. I don’t think Abdulaye knew more of the
song about this Samba than the word forming part of his name, and
though it was a seditious composition we could not be angry with him,
as he evidently had not the least idea what it all meant.
[Illustration: REPAIRING THE ‘AUBE.’]
Abdulaye, who was a big, well-built Wolof, had but one ambition
during our stay at Fort Archinard, and that was to be allowed to
go and smash in the jaw of his fellow-countryman Aliburi, a native
of his own village. This Aliburi is a tool of Amadu, chief champion
of the war to the death with the French, so Abdulaye wishes to kill
him if his master is not to be got at. “Aliburi,” he would say,
“is a bad Wolof.”
When the camp was cleaned and tidied up, the native traders, male
and female, came with their wares, for we had started a market at
Fort Archinard. When our occupation began, one of our chief fears
was that we should suffer from famine through Amadu’s declared
hostility to us. True, there was a village opposite to our camp,
and if the worst came to the worst, we could always make an armed
requisition in Say itself. But I was very averse to any such
measures. They would have been far too great a departure from the
pacific tactics we had so far pursued, and which were enjoined by
our instructions. I was anxious to preserve that attitude, and to
carry out my instructions to the letter. The people at Say seemed
at the first very unwilling to sell us anything. They, of course,
ran considerable risk of being robbed on their way to us, indeed
this really did happen more than once, and the chief of Say, though
he did not forbid their coming to our camp, did not encourage it,
so that those who did venture asked extortionate prices, thirty-five
to forty cubits, or about twenty-one yards of stuff for a sheep,
for instance; but we were able to buy good food for ourselves and
our men, which was the most important thing after all.
The first thing in the morning we used to see the native traders
squatting on the bank opposite Fort Archinard waiting for the little
barge worked by a few men, to go over and fetch them. Most of these
merchants I must add were women, and I really do think that before
they left Say they must have passed an examination in ugliness,
for I never saw such frights anywhere as our first lady visitors
here. As time goes on I know many discover something like beauty
in native women, and there are some who think them as good-looking
as their sisters of pale complexions. Even those who do not exactly
admire them are interested in them because they are types of a race,
but for all that, negresses, like English women when they are ugly
at all, are really revoltingly ugly.
[Illustration: OUR MARKET AT FORT ARCHINARD.]
Well, ugly or not, our market-women soon set out their wares on a
kind of platform a little up-stream from the camp. The _bugnul_, or
negro trader, has his own particular mode of proceeding; he does not
expect to be spoken to, everything is done by gesture. The _djula_, or
merchant, crouches on the ground, with his wares spread out in front
of him. The buyer passes along, looks at the wares, and offers his
cowries or cloth in exchange. If the price is suitable the bargain
is concluded, if not the _djula_ shakes his head, making a sign,
signifying “No,” and the would-be buyer goes away or squats
down himself to await his time. Sometimes the price is lowered, or
the purchaser adds a few cowries to his original offer. There is
none of the noise usual in European markets, none of the flow of
language so characteristic of them. Each party to a bargain tries
to tire out the other, but neither of them wastes any words.
[Illustration: MARKET AT FORT ARCHINARD.]
The first price asked by a negro is never the same as that he means
to take. A reduction of at least half, sometimes much more, is made.
Not knowing what attitude the Koyraberos might assume towards us
in the future, our first care on our arrival at the site of Fort
Archinard was to take advantage of their present good-will, and buy
in a good store of cereals and animals.
We soon made up our minds what prices we would give, for the
circumstances were exceptional, and we wanted rice or millet and
sheep enough to last us for three months. That once accomplished,
we could afford to think of economy and fix our own prices. The
currency employed was white cloth, and my private opinion is that
certain commercial arrangements were agreed upon amongst the notables
of Say, showing no mean intelligence on their part. They meant to
buy up all our merchandise, whether cloth, copper, or beads.
This is what actually happened; as we only gave one or two cubits of
cloth for objects of little value, no real use could be made of them,
so they were sold again to speculators, who bought them at a very
low price from their needy owners, and then hid them away. Nothing
more was seen of them during our stay, but when we were gone they
meant to produce them, and ask extortionate prices for them.
Our average prices fluctuated in an extraordinary way. We presently
superseded Suleyman, who was too much of a talker, and tried other
men as buyers, but we really had not a single coolie who was a good
_djula_; at last in despair Baudry was obliged to take the task upon
himself, and every morning he went to market to lay in a supply of
provisions, buying grain and sheep, milk and butter. He was probably
the only buyer who took no perquisites for himself.
We got to know personally all the frightful negresses who served
us. We talked to them at first by signs, every one using a kind of
language of his own. Father Hacquart became very popular amongst them,
for he could speak the Arabic employed by the so-called marabouts, and
haggle in Songhay with the Koyraberos, whether male or female. Some of
the negresses hit upon a very clever dodge, for instead of selling,
they gave. They brought presents to the Father, to the Commandant,
and to the other officers, such various gifts as calabashes of
honey, eggs, milk, poultry, etc., but the principle was always to
give a little to receive much. Truth to tell, it is very difficult
to refuse to fall in with the idea when the presents are offered in
such an insinuating way.
[Illustration: A YOUNG GIRL OF SAY.]
By these means we started a fine poultry farm, and our chickens lived
in the abattis of our enceinte. Their life was not altogether a happy
one at Fort Archinard; they became too familiar, and, poor things,
this cost them dear. Bluzet and I—this is a merciless age—used to
shoot at them from a little bow with arrows made of bits of bamboo
pointed with a pin, waging pitiless war on those who came to drink
at our well, or who dared to go so far as to disturb us when we had
gone to snatch a little rest and coolness in our huts.
We made rather an important discovery in connection with this shooting
of our poultry. Osman had secretly smuggled some poisoned arrows
into our camp, and we drove the point of one of them into the head
of a hen which had already been wounded by Bluzet. The result was
astonishing, for the next day the hen was cured of her first hurt,
and able to run about as if nothing had happened.
This must not, however, lead any one to be careless about wounds
from poisoned arrows: some are always mortal. The stuff with which
they are smeared consists of wax and _kuna_, or extract of a common
gum, forming a very strong poison which, however, quickly loses
its efficacy. The best thing to do when struck by such an arrow is
to burn the wound immediately, or to inject chloride of gold all
round it under the skin. A simpler treatment still is just to fill
the wound with gunpowder and set fire to it; but this is rather too
Spartan a remedy for everybody.
Our market was the chief excitement of the morning, for in it we
could study typical natives, and note the special peculiarities
of each. The population of Say and the surrounding districts is
very mixed, including Songhays, Fulahs, Haussas, Djermankobes,
Macimankes, Mossi, Gurunsi, Kurteyes, etc., each with cicatrized
wounds of a different kind on their faces, as is the case with so
many African tribes.
The market, too, is the best place for getting reliable news, and
besides, the very attitude of the different traders towards each
other is a revelation of the state of feeling in the country. If
a great many assembled it was a sign that all was going on well
for us, that the report of the French Expedition was spreading,
and that Amadu Saturu was likely to come to his senses about us. If
the attendance at the market fell off, however, it was a sign that
hostile columns were being called together, why we could not tell,
but probably to attack us; or again some new check was to be put
upon our buying or selling. Once indeed Amadu made a feeble effort
to reduce us by famine, and our supply of sheep was stopped for a
time. But a threat made to Osman on purpose that he should repeat
it, that we would go and fetch the sheep from Say for ourselves,
was immediately successful, for the next day the best and cheapest
animals we had yet procured were brought to us. We never ate better
mutton before or since.
[Illustration: TYPICAL NATIVES AT THE FORT ARCHINARD MARKET.]
Whilst the market was going on, Taburet used to prescribe for many
natives who came to consult him. But carelessness and ignorance
work terrible havoc among the negroes everywhere. There would be
plenty for a doctor to do who cared to study diseases now become
rare in civilized countries. From amongst the patients who came to
Taburet, a grand or rather terrible list of miraculous cures might
have been drawn up. These patients included men and women suffering
from tubercular and syphilitic diseases, which had been allowed
to run their dread course unchecked by any remedies whatever;
many too were blind or afflicted with goitre and elephantiasis,
whilst there were numerous lepers. Few, however, were troubled with
nervous complaints. It was indeed difficult to prescribe for such
cases as came before the good doctor; indeed it would often have been
quite impossible for his instructions to be carried out. Many poor
cripples came from a long distance to consult the white doctor,
expecting to be made whole immediately, when they were really
incurable. Where, however, would have been the good of prescribing
cleanliness, when one of their most used remedies is to smear any
wound with mud and cow-dung mixed together, the eyes of ophthalmic
patients even being treated with the horrible stuff? Where would
be the good of ordering them nourishing food such as gravy beef,
when they are too poor to get it? Good wine? Even if we could have
supplied them with it, they would have flung it away with horror,
for they are Mussulmans. Quinine then? Its bitterness would have
made them suspect poison. They all came expecting miracles, and
all that could be done for them was to paint their sore places with
iodine, and to give them various lotions and antiseptic dressings,
or a solution of iodide of potassium, and so on, from the use of
which they would, most of them, obtain no benefit at all.
Taburet was consulted about all sorts of things. For instance, a
pretty Fulah woman from Saga with a pale complexion and engaging
manners had got into trouble. She had overstepped the bounds of
reserve prescribed in her tribe to young girls, and was soon to become
a mother. Well, she came timidly to the doctor to ask for medicines
for her case, and when it was explained to her that that case was
incurable, for the French law forbids the destruction of life, she
went away, only to return the next day with her mother. The latter
explained that if she and her daughter returned to their village
as things were, they would both be stoned to death, or at least,
if their judges were merciful, be put in irons for the rest of their
lives. The young girl was pretty, many men in her village had asked
her in marriage, but she had refused them all. All her people were
now eager to revenge themselves on her, and to apply in all their
terrible rigour, the “just Mussulman laws.” She had neither
father, brother, nor any one to defend her. Her seducer had deserted
her, and it is not customary amongst the Fulahs to make inquiries
as to the father of illegitimate children.
The people of Say had recommended the mother in mockery to take
her girl to the Christians, she was good for nothing else now, they
said. If we could not cure her, there was nothing left for them to
do but to hide themselves in the fetich-worshipping village of Gurma,
where they would lead a miserable life, unnoticed and unknown.
The two poor women with tears in their eyes knelt to the doctor
imploring his help, and crying _Safarikoy! Safarikoy!_ and I asked
myself, what would be the duty of a doctor in this bigoted land if
he had had the necessary instruments for meeting the unfortunate
girl’s wishes. Perhaps it was as well that in this case nothing
could be done.
All the same this domestic drama was very heart-rending. I tried
for a long time to console our visitors. The old woman stuck to her
request for medicine, and promised to reward us with everything she
could think of likely to please us. She even offered us her daughter,
saying that she might remain with us, and could follow us wherever
we went.
I told Digui to get rid of them as gently as possible, and gave
them a good present to enable them to reach some heathen village
where the people would have pity on them. They departed at last,
the mother’s tears soaking her tattered garments, the daughter
following her, her little feet swollen with walking, and her head
drooping in her despair.
_À propos_ of this episode, Suleyman the interpreter held forth
in the following strain—“From the earliest times prophets,
marabouts, and the negro chiefs who founded the religious dynasty
of the country, have been terribly severe on any lapse from morality
amongst their women, but it is all humbug, for most of the marabouts
are the fathers of illegitimate children.
“Amongst Amadu’s people the man and woman who have sinned are
deprived of all their property, but Abdul Bubakar goes still further,
for he sacks the entire village to which a frail woman belongs, a
capital way of getting slaves and everything else. In other districts
the woman is put in irons, but the man goes free; but if the seducer
comes forward and owns his crime, he can obtain remission of the
punishment by payment of a large sum to the chief of the village;
generally, however, the unfortunate girl dies in her chains.
“Such are the manners and customs of the Mussulmans, and God alone
knows what their women are really like.
“Samory used to kill both the guilty parties, but Tieba, his enemy
and neighbour, professed an amiable kind of philosophy on the subject
of the weaker sex and the ways of women. When Samory was conquered by
Tieba, the chief auxiliaries of the latter were the nomad Diulas who
were strangers in the land. These Diulas had come to the district
by way of Sikasso, where they had met with women of free and easy
manners, and had been driven by the force of circumstances to remain
amongst them, adopting their ways. Now it generally happens amongst
the negroes, that those who have travelled much and seen something
of the world are not only brave but sensible and free from bigotry.
[Illustration: WOMEN OF SAY.]
“Samory, who was so fond of cutting off heads in obedience to the
injunctions of the Koran, had a wife named Sarankeni, who is still
his favourite, and she was the one to lay her finger on the cause
of his defeat, when he was still smarting from its effects. She saw
that it was the women of easy morals who prevented the strangers
who had aided Tieba from deserting him in his need. Samory was
open to conviction, and since then”—according to Suleyman,
though I think he exaggerated—“if one of the chief’s people
discovers that a woman or a daughter of his house has gone wrong, he
gives a fee to the seducer, or at least offers him refreshments and
speaks him fair, and this has now become the fashion throughout the
districts reigned over by the great Fama. Sarankeni, the favourite,
the giver of the advice which led to the change, is alone excepted
from the new rule.” Probably, as she is still young, she had a
very different motive for her conduct than that generally accepted.
Whilst the market was going on, we used also to make a tour of
inspection in our kitchen-garden. An officer of the garrison of
Timbuktu had been good enough to give us some packets of the usual
seeds, and under the skilled direction of the doctor we had had a
plot of ground cleared, manured, and planted. To sow seed is one
thing, however, to reap results is another, and in spite of the
delicate attentions of Atchino, our man from Dahomey, our gardener
for the nonce, who religiously watered the seeds every morning,
and in spite of the visits we paid to our plantations at dawn and
eventide, no great results ensued. Probably the sheep and goats,
who were greedy creatures all of them, got the pick of everything,
in spite of the thorn hedge we had put up round our garden.
All we got ourselves were a few big tomatoes, some cucumbers, some
little pink radishes, and two or three salads. You can just imagine
our delight when on one occasion Taburet triumphantly brought in
three radishes apiece.
For all that, we can’t be too grateful for our garden. If we did
not get many vegetables, we always had the hope of getting some,
and the pleasure of watching the growth of various weeds which
we expected to turn out to be lettuces, beetroots, or cabbages,
and we used to say joyfully, “When that is big enough to eat, or
when this is ready,” and so on. The hope of luxuries, when we are
provided with all that is absolutely necessary, is always cheering.
Whilst we are on the subject of food, I may as well say a little
about what we lived on during our stay at Fort Archinard. In spite
of our long distance from home we must be strictly accurate, and I
am almost ashamed to own that we were never reduced to having to eat
our dogs. Nor was the reason for this the fact that we had no dogs
with us to eat. Far from that; we had three dogs, one after the other,
not to speak of the cats already referred to. Our three dogs were all,
I don’t know why, called Meyer. They were yellow, famished-looking
beasts, who were native to the country, and rather savage. All came
to a sad end and got lost, but I don’t know exactly what became
of them. Once more, however, I swear by Mahomet we did not eat one
of them.
Although we ate no dogs we managed to subsist, for we were never
without sheep or rice. The diet was not much to boast of, and we had
to keep a whole flock in our island always, for there was very little
pasturage on our small domain for some twenty or thirty animals. After
a few days of such nourishment as they got, our sheep became anæmic,
and their flesh turned a greenish colour. Still we managed to eat it
in semi-darkness. On the other hand, our rice was always good. That
grown in the country is small, and of a slightly reddish colour. It
swells less in cooking than the white rice of Cochin China or Pegu,
but it has a nicer and a stronger taste. Taburet used to swear by
all the heathen gods that he would never eat rice, yet very soon
he could not do without it. Fili Kanté, already mentioned, turned
out a first-rate cook, and he really did deserve praise for what he
achieved, for we were none of us able to help him with advice. True,
the Commandant had made everybody’s mouth water by saying that
he would take charge of the pot as soon as the expedition arrived
at Say; but he never troubled his head about the matter again.
He did, however, sometimes preside at the cooking of _mechuis_, that
is to say, of sheep roasted whole on the spit in the Arab style,
and the _mechuis_ of Fort Archinard were celebrated—on the island!
Rice and mutton were the staples of our meals. Every morning
Fili Kanté used to come to the chief of the mess and say, as if
he were announcing a new discovery—“I shall give you mutton
and rice to-day, Lieutenant.”—“And what else?” I would
ask.—“An omelette.”—“And after that?”—“A _nougat_ and some
cheese.”
You read that word _nougat_? Well now, would you like to know
what it was made of? Here is the recipe (not quite the same as
that for Montélimar almond cake): Take some honey; make it boil;
add to it some pea-nuts shelled and ground. Turn it all out on to a
cold plate—the bottom of an empty tin will do if you have nothing
else—and let it stand till cold.
It makes a capital dessert, I can tell you, especially when there
is nothing better to be had.
You read, too, that we were to have cheese. We could generally get
as much milk as we liked, and it made a first-rate cheese the second
day; quite delicious, I assure you. We generally had cheese for all
our mid-day meals, and _nougat_ at supper or dinner, whichever you
like to call it.
Sometimes, too, we fished, but there was not very much to be got out
of the Niger near Fort Archinard; now and then, however, we succeeded
in making a good haul, enough for a meal, with the use of a petard
of gun-cotton.
The fish we caught in the Niger were much the same as those found in
the Senegal. The kind the natives call “captains” and _ntébés_
are very delicate in flavour, and often of considerable size. We
once caught a “captain” at Gurao on the Debo, weighing nearly
80 lbs. It took two men to carry it, and when it was hung from a
pole it trailed on the ground. But we rarely had such luck as this
at Fort Archinard.
Another kind of fish, called the _machoiran_, with very flat jaws,
was to be found in the mud and ooze of the Niger, but beware of eating
its flesh. If, it is said, you cut the fat off its tail (Heaven only
knows if it has any), by mistake, at full moon, and then drink some
fresh milk, and sleep out of doors for the rest of the night on
a white coverlet, and then in the morning drink a basin of water,
you will surely catch leprosy. I don’t suppose the lepers of Say
had really taken all these precautions to ensure having the disease.
I must add that there is one thing which all travellers in Africa will
find very useful. I allude to the Prevet tablets of condensed food. We
can justly testify to their efficacy, whether they are Julienne,
carrots, Brussels sprouts, pears, or apples. They are light, easily
carried, and easily divided. To have used them once is recommendation
enough, but it is necessary to know how to prepare them, and not to
follow Baudry’s example, who one day served us some Prevet spinach,
which tasted for all the world like boiled hay. If ever you travel
with him, don’t make him chief of the commissariat.
In the morning we also worked at making our map, for we should
certainly never have been able to finish it in Paris in the limited
time we should be allowed for it. We made a duplicate copy of the map,
_grosso modo_, from Timbuktu to Say, to guard against the possible
loss of one of the barges. Then came the time for taking our daily
dose of twenty centigrammes of quinine dissolved in two centilitres
of alcohol, which, truth to tell, was anything but pleasant to the
taste. Even Abdulaye himself, who could swallow anything, made a
wry face at this terrible mixture; but to help us to digest the
everlasting mutton and rice boiled in water, and to keep down the
symptoms of fever which threatened us all, nothing could be better.
[Illustration: FORT ARCHINARD.]
I cannot too often insist on the fact that it was, thanks to the daily
dose of quinine regularly administered by order to every member of
the expedition, that we owe our safe return in good health, and with
appetites unimpaired.
We owe to it, too, the fact that in spite of many fevers in past days,
we actually had gained, on our return to Paris, not only in weight,
but in our power of enjoying a joke.
Last January, after my return to France, I had been giving an
account at a public meeting of the results of my expedition, and
my companions and I were going down the staircase of the Sorbonne,
attended by a considerable crowd, when two gentlemen, radiant with
health, evidently from the French colonies, and geographers, else
why were they there? exchanged their impressions as they passed
us. “Pooh,” said one of them, shrugging his shoulders, “they
have not even got dirty heads!”
After lunch we all went to take a little siesta, or at least to rest
during the great heat of the day. The siesta, though so much in use
in the tropics, is really a very bad habit, and many ailments of the
stomach are caused by it. It is really better only to indulge in a
noonday nap after exceptional fatigue; but of course it is a very
different matter just to avoid active exercise immediately after
a meal, and to read quietly without going to sleep. To wind up all
this advice to future travellers in the Sudan, let me just add this
one more word, “Do as I say rather than as I did.”
Many of the coolies did not go to sleep in the resting hour, but
chatted together about the news of the day, or gave each other a
little elementary instruction, for negroes, even when grown up, are
very fond of teaching and of being taught. Their ambition, however,
is generally limited to learning to write a letter to their friends
or family. They take great delight in corresponding with the absent,
and I have known young fellows in the Sudan who spend nearly all
their salaries in sending telegraphic despatches to their friends. I
knew others, amongst whom was Baudry’s servant, who gave up most
of their free time at Say to writing letters which never reached
their destination, for a very good reason. They were all much in
the style of the one quoted below—
“Dear Mr. Fili Kanté,—I write to inform you that the Niger
Hydrographical Expedition has arrived at Fort Archinard, and that,
thanks to God, all are well. When you write to me, send me news of
my father and mother, and my friends at Diamu (the writer’s native
village). I shall be very pleased, too, if you will send the twelve
samba (_sembé_) (coverlets), four horses, ten sheep, etc.
“With my best greetings, dear Mr. Fili Kanté.
“(Signed) Mussa Diakhite
(in the service of Mr. Baudry.)”
Might you not fancy this letter, with all its decorative strokes,
to be one from the soldier Dumanet to his parents? Nothing is
wanted to complete the resemblance, not even the attempt to fleece
his correspondent.
Besides these lovers of correspondence, there were others who were
mad about arithmetic. Samba Demba, Suzanne’s groom, already often
mentioned, wanted to know enough arithmetic to matriculate. All
through the hour of the siesta, and often also when he was at work,
he was muttering the most absurd numbers over to himself; absurd
for him, at least, for the negroes who do not live where the cowry
serves as currency, cannot conceive the idea of any number beyond a
thousand. Samba Demba would read what he called his “matricula”
of nine figures and more, to Father Hacquart, with the greatest
complacency, whilst Ahmady-Mody, who had patched up the _Aube_,
strove in vain to learn _b-a ba, b-e be_, or twice two are four,
twice three are six, with his head bent over a big card. The marabout
Tierno Abdulaye actually composed and sung Arabic verses. In the
midst of it all the voice of Dr. Taburet would be heard from his
tent hard by complaining that he could not sleep.
All these good fellows, with their eagerness to learn, had
a child-like side to their characters. There is no doubt that
they would very quickly learn to read, write, and cipher, as the
advertisements of elementary schools express it—read without
understanding too much, write without knowing what, and calculate
without ever being able to apply their arithmetic. Anyhow, however,
even this little knowledge will wean them from the pernicious
influence of the marabouts.
[Illustration: OUR COOLIES AT THEIR TOILETTE.]
After sunset the heat became more bearable, and the time for our
evening bath arrived. At the northern extremity of our island were
a number of pools amongst the rocks, varying in depth according to
the tide. Here and there were regular cascades, and we could stand
on the sand bottom and get a natural shower-bath. Some of us became
perfectly enamoured of this style of bathing. Opinions differ in
Africa as to the healthiness of it, however. For my part, I know that
bathing in the tepid water, warmed as it was by the heat of the sun,
was very refreshing, and of course the cleaner we kept ourselves the
better the pores of our skin acted. It may be that stopping long in
the water every day was weakening, and some fevers may have been
caused by it when it happened to be colder than usual. There are
two opinions on this as on every subject, but where is the good of
discussing them?—the best plan is to do what you like yourself.
In the river near Fort Archinard there were lots of common fish,
which used to shoot down the cascades of an evening for the sake of
the greater freshness and coolness of the water below. These fish
would actually strike us now and then on the shoulders, making us
start by the suddenness of the unexpected blows. It was still more
unpleasant to know that other denizens of the river, the terrible
crocodiles, though further off, were still there.
Oh, what numbers of the horrible great grey creatures we used to see
floating down with the stream or lying about the banks! Some of them
had taken up their abode quite near to us, along the side of our
island, just where we used to do our fishing with the gun-cotton,
but their being close to us did not prevent either the coolies,
or for the matter of that the whites, from going into the river.
With sunset came the hour of supper or dinner, and what grand sky
effects we used to see whilst we were at that meal in these winter
quarters of ours! Our walls were flecked with every colour of the
rainbow, whilst in the east, above the sombre wooded banks, would
often rise red masses of curious-looking clouds, precursors of the
approaching tornado. Sometimes the sun had not quite set before the
lightning would begin to flash, and the thunder to roll incessantly,
sounding like the roar of artillery in battle. As we sat at table
we would discuss the situation: what would the tornado do this
time? Would our huts be able to bear up against it? Would much
water come in? “Make haste, Fili, bring us that _nougat_ before
it rains!” said Bluzet. And were the barges securely moored? Had
the sentry got his cloak? and so on.
[Illustration: A WOMAN OF SAY.]
Father Hacquart became as time went on, quite an expert meteorologist,
and only once or twice made a mistake in his predictions about
the weather.
The terrible arch of clouds peculiar to a tornado, meanwhile, goes up
and up till it nearly reaches the zenith. Behind it in the east is
a great glow of light, resembling the reflection of a conflagration
in the big plate-glass windows of some shop on the Paris boulevards
seen through the rain.
We all disperse now, going to our huts to light our candles, whilst
the rain pours down in torrents, and the leaves are torn from the
trees and whirled round and round. The branches are creaking, the
roofs are bending beneath the fury of the storm, the rain turns to
hail, and through the great sabbat of the elements, the voices of
the sentries are heard calling out from beneath the deluge pouring
down upon them, “Is all well?” and the reply comes soon, “All
is well.”
Then when the worst seems to be over, we go to examine how much
damage is done, and Father Hacquart comes out to have one more look
at the weather. Presently we hear some one growling out that the
rain has come through his roof like a thief in the night, or that
it is pouring over his threshold. We all laugh together, for we are
all in the same boat.
Fortunately the damage done is seldom greater than this, for the huts
stand the strain well. We only once had to deplore a real misfortune,
and that not a very serious one, only it made us fear that a worse
might happen.
A pair of white and black storks had nested in the big tamarind tree
which formed the eastern corner of the _tata_ looking down-stream,
and we considered this a good omen for us, a talisman ensuring to
us the protection of Allah during our stay in the island. Storks,
as is well known, are very peculiar birds, and acts of extraordinary
intelligence are attributed to them, which would appear to prove that
their lives are regulated by certain social laws. It was an amusement
to us to watch them of an evening, and to note all the details of
their family life; the first finding of a home, for instance, their
courtship, their talks in the gloaming; when perched together on one
branch they would seem to be looking at us, balancing themselves with
their heavy heads on one side, with the air of old men considering
some new invention, or savants discussing abstract verities.
Our pair of storks, in spite of their calm and sedate appearance,
must really have been only just beginning their joint _ménage_,
and can have had no real experience of life. They evidently knew
how to fish by instinct; but a sad catastrophe befell their home,
which they had built on a big dead branch, for in a specially violent
tornado the bough was torn off, nest and all, and flung upon the
quick-firing gun pointing up-stream, knocking over Ibrahim Bubakar,
who was on sentry duty, but who fortunately escaped with a fright
and a few bruises on the legs. Alas! however, three young storks,
the children of the pair, were flung to the ground and killed. We
picked them up dead the day after the tornado, and stuffed them.
[Illustration: A NATIVE WOMAN WITH GOITRE.]
Our men were in great despair. The charm which would have brought luck
to our camp was broken; but the parent birds, in spite of the loss
of their little ones, evidently determined to act as our talisman to
the end of our stay, for they continued to fly round and round our
tamarind, and to talk together of an evening, though sadly. It was
not until a few days before we left that they flew away towards the
north. Thanks to them, perhaps, we had a run of good luck to the last.
The tornado freshened the atmosphere very considerably, and the sudden
change could only be fully realized by consulting the thermometer. In
five minutes the glass would sometimes fall from forty-five to
thirty degrees. A corresponding and sympathetic change would take
place in the state of our nerves; we could sleep a little if only the
mosquitoes would let us, but, alas! their droning never ceased. Oh,
that horrible music, which went on for ever without mercy, causing
us more anguish even than the bites, and against which no curtain
could protect.
The frogs, too, added to the droning of the mosquitoes what we may
call their peculiar Plain Songs or Gregorian chants. They were
very tame, showing no fear of us, but took up their abode here,
there, and everywhere: out in the open air, or in the huts, in our
books, under our tins, and in our water-vessels, and their ceaseless
singing in full solemn tones, echoed that of the distant choirs of
their wilder brethren chattering together amongst the grass by the
river-side. Although not composed on the spot, I cannot refrain from
quoting the following sonnet, produced by a member of our expedition,
and which forms a kind of sequel to the others I have transcribed
above—
LOVE-SONG.
When evening falls upon the land asleep,
When mute the singers of the tropic plain,
When winds die down, and every bird’s refrain
Or insect’s cry is hush’d in silence deep;
Then from the lotus beds triumphant leap
Frantic crescendoes of a rhythmic strain,
Wild cadences mount up, to sink again
Lamenting, as when mourners wail and weep;—
Comes to the traveller upon the stream,
A Plain-Song Litany of high despair;
The notes Gregorian fit into his dream
Of home and fatherland, remotely fair;—
Whilst from the gleaming mud in Niger’s course
Rises an amorous croak, now sweet, now hoarse.
In every country in the world fine weather comes after rain, and
the tornado was succeeded on the Niger by a star-light night of a
clearness and limpidity such as is never seen anywhere out of the
tropics. The soft murmur of the Niger was borne to us upon the gentle
night breeze, reminding us of the Fulah proverb—
“_Ulululu ko tiaygueul, so mayo héwi, déguiet_,” which may
be translated—
“Ulululu cries the brook, the big river is silent.”
A true description indeed of what really often seemed to happen during
our long imprisonment on our island, for we could hear the gurgling of
the rapid further down-stream, but the voice of the river was hushed.
Our nights passed quietly enough, watch being always kept by one white
man, one black subordinate officer, and two coolies. From Timbuktu
to Lokodja, that is to say, from January 21 to October 21, we five
Europeans had taken the night-watch in turn. It must be admitted that
at Fort Archinard it was sometimes rather difficult to remain awake,
and to keep ourselves from yielding to our exhausting fatigue. We had
to resort to various manœuvres, such as pinching ourselves, bathing
our feet, wrists, or head, and walking rapidly up and down. Sometimes,
as one or another of us sat in Father Hacquart’s folding-chair,
looking out upon the moon-lit scene, there was something very charming
about the silence and repose, and as we have already given several
quotations of poetical effusions, I think I must add just one more
on the night-watch, also composed by one of our party.
NIGHT-WATCH.
I loll and smoke, with mind a-blank;—we sail
Together, all ye stars of motion slow!
Moon! a poor trophy you may hang me now
Upon one horn—Moon! like a fairy’s nail
Curved, tilted, thin and delicately pale!
You, old Orion, may not lift your brow
To where on high the mystic symbols glow
Of Cross and Angel’s Car that next I hail;
Then Venus—Beauty bathed in lambent stream
Of astral milk, outpour’d long ages past
From time-worn breasts!—to these, in the first gleam
Of morning freshness, from the dreary waste,
Whilst as our bark adown the dim stream floats,
With rower’s boat-song blends the frog’s last notes.
Thus the days went on monotonously, so monotonously that we were
often quite feverish with _ennui_! At the beginning, the building of
the fort and settling down gave us a little variety, but of course
that did not last.
Winter in the Sudan would really not be much worse than anywhere else
if plenty of occupation and movement could be secured, with occasional
change of air; but it becomes simply deadly dull when one is limited
to a small space, compelled to inhale the same miasmic exhalations,
and absorb the same kind of microbes every day and every night.
Yet this was exactly our position. We were a small party in the midst
of a hostile population. Even if we had ventured to leave our camp
we should have had to divide, one-half of us remaining on guard;
but neither division would have been strong enough in any emergency,
for those who went could not spare any coolies as scouts, whilst those
who remained would have no sentries. When we went to fetch wood, we
did not go out of sight of our fort, which was left to the care of the
halt and lame, so to speak: the interpreters and the scullions, and
I was quite uneasy about them when I saw the men leave of a morning.
[Illustration: A TOWER OF FORT ARCHINARD.]
Our one safe road, the river, was blocked above and below the camp,
for we had a rapid up-stream and a rapid down-stream, so that even
quite small canoes could not pass.
There has been much talk of winter in the Arctic regions, and of
course such a winter is always very severe, but the one we passed
at Say was simply miserable. I really do think that the fact of all
five of us Europeans having survived it, is a proof that we were
endowed with a great amount of energy and vitality.
The temperature had much to do with our sufferings. It increased
steadily until June, and then remained pretty stationary. The
thermometer, which was set up beneath a little wooden shelter
daily, reached extraordinary maxima. For one whole month the
maximum fluctuated between forty and fifty degrees Centigrade, the
atmosphere becoming heavier and more exhausting as the day wore on
until sunset. During the night the maximum was generally a little
over thirty degrees, and you must remember that I am speaking of
the winter, when the air was pretty well saturated with moisture.
I have read in books of travel of countries where, to avoid succumbing
from the heat, Europeans live in holes dug in the earth, and make
negroes pour more or less fresh water on their heads from calabashes
to keep them cool. We never got as far as that, but I do think that
Say, at least in June and July, can compete in intensity of heat
with any other place in the world.
In such an oven we quite lost our appetites!
Now ensued a time of terrible _ennui_. All our energy, all our
gaiety, all our philosophy melted away before the awful prospect
of living in this remote and hostile corner of the earth for five
whole months; five months during which we knew we could not stir
from the island; five months in which we must endure all the storms
of heaven in our frail huts, and be exposed to the ceaseless plots
against us of Amadu. The dreary, monotonous days in which nothing
happened, did not even supply us with topics of conversation, so we
talked more and more of France, which of course only intensified
our home-sickness. Taburet, who had a wonderful memory for dates,
seemed to find every day of the month an anniversary of some event.
It became a more serious matter when our _ennui_ resulted in constant
attacks of fever, but fortunately these attacks, thanks to the daily
dose of quinine, were never very serious, only their recurrence
was weakening, the more so that they were accompanied by what we
called the Sudanite fever, a kind of moral affection peculiar to
African soil.
This Sudanite affection betrayed itself by different eccentricities
in different people. It really is the effect of the great heat of
the sun upon anæmic subjects, or upon those whose brains are not
very strong. Sometimes, at about four o’clock in the morning,
we used all of a sudden to hear a series of detonations inside the
enceinte. “Holloa!” we would exclaim, “some one has got an
attack of Sudanite fever, and is working it off by firing at bottles
floating on the river.” Or another of the party would seal himself
up hermetically in his hut, blocking every hole or crack through
which a ray of sunlight could penetrate. The whole of the interior
would be hung with blue stuff, under the pretence that red or white
light would give fever. Another case of Sudanite!
We could cite many more examples of the disease during our stay at
Fort Archinard.
However different may be most of its symptoms, one is always the
same—a patient afflicted with it contradicts everybody and shows
an absolutely intolerant spirit.
Truth to tell, I must add, in common fairness, that we were all
more or less affected by it. We might have managed to pull along
peaceably in an ordinary station with occupations which separated
us from each other sometimes, but in this island, this cage, for
it was little more, we were always rubbing shoulders, so to speak,
and constant friction was inevitable. In fact, we ran our angles
into our neighbours instead of rubbing those angles down. We were
regularly prostrated with our inactive, almost idle life, and the
true characters of each one came out without disguise.
[Illustration: THE MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION AT FORT ARCHINARD.]
At table every discussion led to a kind of squabble. Each of us stuck
to his own opinion, even when the most astounding paradoxes had been
enunciated. Sometimes, after a regular row, we all sat perfectly
mute glaring at each other, and wondering what was to happen next.
At night, or in the hour of the siesta, I used to get out my
flute—another form of the Sudanite fever—and play melodies from
the _Or du Rhin_ or _Tristan et Yseult_, but even music failed to
calm the disputants. The tension was too great, and I was afraid
that, even at this late period of our expedition, things would go
wrong in consequence.
All of a sudden a happy idea occurred to me, a regular inspiration
from Heaven, which every one fell in with at once.
This idea was simply that we should all work, and the result was
the immediate restoration of order.
It was a simple task enough that we now set ourselves to do, just
to make vocabularies of the various more or less barbarous idioms
in use in the Niger districts. There were plenty to choose from,
for there is more confusion of tongues, such as is described in
the Bible, in these parts than anywhere else. There is a perfectly
inexhaustible supply of peculiar phrases.
For instance, between Abo, in the highest part of the delta of the
Niger, and the sea, as an officer of the Royal Niger Company told me,
there are no less than seven dialects spoken, none of which have the
very slightest affinity with each other. It would appear that one wave
of migration has succeeded another, as the breakers do on the beach,
the natives composing the different parties of emigrants dying out,
or leaving only a few survivors stranded like islets in a flood in
the tropical forests, retaining their original customs and dialects,
and continuing to offer sacrifices in the old way, uninfluenced by
the other native populations.
It has been different further inland, for the last emigrants have
been absorbed by the earlier settlers, rather than driven back, but
at the same time their characteristics have not been merged in those
of other tribes, so that we still find side by side totally different
customs, and people speaking different dialects quite unlike each
other, such as the Tuareg, Fulah, Songhay, Bambara, Bozo, Mossi,
etc., almost equally distributed over extensive districts.
So we all set to work. Father Hacquart and I buckled to at the
Tuareg language. Pullo Khalifa turned out to be an indifferent
teacher, though he was full of good-will. He was never at a loss
for the signification of a word, but his renderings were mostly
merely approximate. I have already dwelt upon the peculiarities
of the Tuareg language in a previous chapter, so I will only add
here that we had two other instructors in it, another Fulah, a
Mahommedan, who shilly-shallied a good deal in his interpretations,
and a female blacksmith of Bokar Wandieïdiu, now attached to the
service of Ibrahim Galadio, who lent her to us. The last-named was
certainly the most interesting of our linguistic professors. She had
a tremendous voice, and was as ugly as sin, but she gave herself many
airs and graces. With the aid of these three and a few others we drew
up quite an imposing comparative vocabulary of the Tuareg language.
Father Hacquart also devoted some time to the study of Songhay,
which is spoken between Say and Timbuktu, and also in other districts
beyond those towns in the east and west, for we meet with it again
at Jenné and at Aghades. Near Say, they call the Songhay language
_djermanké_. Pretty well every one undertook to teach us Songhay;
it was a simple dialect enough, spoken through the nose, and it was
likely to be very useful to us. The _Pères blancs_ of Timbuktu give
especial attention to its study.
Tierno Abdulaye Dem, a few coolies, old Suleyman, who had deserted
Amadu, tired of wandering about after him, and had rejoined us to go
back to his beloved Foota, used to assemble every day in Baudry’s
hut, which was transformed into a Fulah academy.
Most unexpected results ensued from these meetings. The Fulah
language is a very charming one, and has been carefully studied by
General Faidherbe and M. de Giraudon, but there is still a good deal
to be learnt about it. It is very difficult to connect it with any
other. It is the one language necessary for travelling or for trading
between Saint Louis and Lake Tchad. There have been many theories
on the subject of the Fulah migration, and a great deal of nonsense
has been talked about it. Baudry, who studied the language with the
greatest zeal, discovered some extraordinary grammatical rules in it
and strange idioms, enough to frighten M. Brid’oison himself. No one
could now utter two or three words at table without Baudry declaring
how they could be translated into one Fulah expression. The following
example will give an idea of how much could be expressed in a Fulah
word. I must add, however, that Baudry and Tierno Abdulaye agree in
saying it is very seldom used.
The word I allude to is _Nannantundiritde_, which signifies to pretend
to go and ask mutually and reciprocally for news of each other.
Tierno Abdulaye, who was a Toucouleur from the Senegal districts,
gave out that he could speak his maternal language or Fulah pretty
perfectly. When, however, Baudry set to work to explain to him
the formation of Fulah words which he claimed to have discovered,
Tierno realized that after all he did not know much about it, so
he tried to acquire grammatical Fulah, with the result that many of
his fellow-countrymen could not understand what he said. They were
completely confused by all these new rules, but Baudry was delighted
at having won a disciple.
The people of Massina, or the districts near the great bend of the
Niger, speak very quietly and in a low voice, as if they realized
the beauty of their language, and do not trouble themselves very much
about strict grammatical accuracy. The Fulah tongue, in fact, admits
of an immense number of shades of expression, and though there is not
perhaps exactly anything that can be called Fulah literature, except
for a few songs which can only be obtained from the griots with the
greatest difficulty, the language simply teems with proverbs. Here
are a few examples, but of course, like all such sayings, they lose
terribly in translation:—
“When you cannot suck the breasts of your mother, you must suck
those of your grandmother.”
“When a man has eaten his hatchet and his axe, he is not likely
to sputter much over broiled pea-nuts.”
“A stick may rot in the water, but that does not make it a
crocodile.”
“There is the skin of a sheep and the skin of a cow, but there is
always a skin.”
Thanks to Osman, Bluzet had unearthed a cobbler or _garanké_, a
native of Mossi. He was a very worthy fellow, but, it seems to me,
most of his fellow-countrymen are equally estimable. The Mossi, at
least those we knew, were all very easily intimidated, but honest and
trustworthy. At first Bluzet had a good deal of trouble to get any
information out of this Mossi, but when he gained a little confidence
he got on apace, and used to indulge on occasion in long monologues,
as when he treated us to the following little tale, which he related
to us all in Mossi in Bluzet’s hut.
“One day, a woman going along the road to Say, taking some milk
to market, sat down at the foot of a tree and fell asleep.
“Presently three young men came up, and when they saw the woman
one of them said to the others—
“‘Follow me, and imitate everything I do.’
“They approached her cautiously, making a _détour_ round the
brushwood. ‘Hu! hu!’ cried the leader, when he got close to the
sleeper, and the others shouted after him, ‘Hu! hu!’
“The woman started up terrified, and ran away, leaving the calabash
of milk on the ground.
“Then the eldest of the three young men said, ‘This milk is
mine because I am the eldest.’ ‘No,’ said the second, ‘it
is mine because I thought of crying, Hu! hu!’ ‘No, no,’ cried
the third, ‘I mean to drink it, for I am armed with a spear,
and you have only sticks.’
“Just then a marabout passed by. ‘Let him be the judge!’ said
the disputants, and they put their case before him.
“‘I know of nothing in the Koran which applies to your
difficulty,’ said the holy man; ‘but show me the milk.’ He
took the milk, he looked at it, he drank it. ‘This is really good
milk,’ he added, ‘but there is nothing about your case in the
Koran that I know of.’”
With two other vocabularies of Gurma and Bozo expressions, less
complete than those of the Songhay and Fulah languages, we made up
a total of more than ten thousand new words, to which we added many
very interesting grammatical remarks.
This absorbing occupation, which fortunately became a positive
monomania with some of us, contributed more than anything to our
being able to survive the last month of our stay at Fort Archinard.
[Illustration: OUR QUICK-FIRING GUN.]
[Illustration: NATIVES OF SAY.]